The Friendly Dunmer
by Caturday
Summary: I find it more inspiring than any epic about legends of the past, and its hero more noteworthy than any Ashlander prophet.


_**The friendly Dunmer.**_

_Ahh... Morrowind. Such a great game. I've been totally hooked on the theme song all over again. It's truly proof, as if it were needed, that no fancy graphics or special effects will ever beat great immersion. Anyway, here's a little something I wrote as a tribute to this awesome game. Enjoy... or don't, that's your call._

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My story isn't interesting to them. When the kittens mew for stories of Morrowind, they want to hear about heroes. They want me to tell them about the Nerevarine, facing off against evil at the core of Red Mountain. They want to hear about acts worthy of song, with seventeen Deadric princes involved in the outcome. They do not care about _my_ travels through the land, or the story of my cloak. A shame, for I find it more inspiring than any epic about legends of the past, and its hero more noteworthy than any Ashlander prophet.

Of all the people I met in the province of Morrowind, none left me as exalted as did the Telvanni. Their towns were not build of simple bricks, but crafted out of giant mushrooms, the houses connected by ample branches. Out of huge plants do these wizards carve their towers; out of thick roots their roads, reaching for the sky. From the smaller pods they build their homes which, at nighttime, light up a warm orange from the lanterns inside, and blend in with the blue off their bug-luring lanterns. An astonishing sight to behold; truly a tribute to magical apt.

Sadly, the Telvanni were far less eager meeting me than I was them. Especially on the mainland, where the grasslands reach far and every hamlet is a day's walk away, they were cold, hostile, towards my presence. Unlike the cities, where they meet enough outlanders to at least tolerate them, a Khajiit in the rural areas, much less one without a slave's bracer, is a rare, and hated, sight.

Having met my kind only through the poison of their twisted scriptures, the Telvanni Dunmer eyed me with great contempt and, when they noticed I was not a slave, fear. Men shot their hands around their shovels and pitchforks; women hid their babes from sight; as if I truly were a wild animal.

Needless to say, no inn would allow me entrance, and all told me to take my plague somewhere far away. My first night I spend on the side of the road, finding shelter from the rain under a parasol mushroom. There I craved the sweet sugar more than I ever had before. Not for its numbing effects, but as a reminder of home.

Then he passed me.

He looked like any other Dunmer: Dark skin; red eyes; clothed in a cloak as Telvanni males commonly are. Yet he was different. It showed when he saw me shivering in the cold, a curled tail my only protection. His eyes did not see a loathsome beast, but a person in need. Against everything I would ever expect, he joined me under the parasol, sitting down next to me.

I was scared, obviously. Being scolded by everyone around you triggers an innate wariness. I was defensive; expecting an assault. But the stranger did not show any hostility. Instead, he offered me his hand. Hesitantly, I reached for it.

When fur touched flesh he smiled. "You must be cold," he spoke. "This is not a night we would prefer to spend outside."

"It is not," I answered, my voice like a kitten's, "Khajiit does not sit here willingly. The inns do not have room for me."

Hearing this, he looked pained, almost ashamed. "For this, muthsera, you have my deepest apologies. There must have been a misunderstanding. I'm sure the landlords mean you no offense."

He continued to smile as I stared at him, confused; wondering if he truly meant his words. "Maybe I am ignorant. They had me believe the native mer consider me a lesser creature. Something vile."

The rain seeped over the edge of the mushroom, creating the illusion of a watery curtain in front of us. "var var var," the elf sighed at last.

Upon hearing this ancient adage, I pricked up my ears. "You know our tongue," I stated.

"Aye," he affirmed. "I'm a great admirer of the Khajiit, and have studied their culture for a long time. I feel greatly favored sitting next to one, as a friend."

"Friend," I echoed. My voice was like a purr, and my wariness for the stranger melted like snow in the desert. This Dunmer, unusual he may be, was of good intent. By instinct I knew his friendship was genuine.

From under his cloak he took a bottle of Greef. "It would be a great honor to drink with you, sera."

"The honor is mine," I responded. I took the flask from him, and uncorked it with a pinch of my claw. I took the first chug, then handed him back the bottle.

At his request, I told him about Elsweyr. I told him about the deserts, and the many different Khajiit races. In particular he was interested in the nomadic lifestyle of the tribes, and told me he himself had a great passion for traveling. In return, he told me about the power of the Telvanni, and the core of their magicks.

Soon we ran through the Greef, and he told me he would leave. As he stood up he said: "As a gift, I wish to hand you my cloak. Wear it, and be protected from the cold."

With trembling paws I accepted. And as I did, he murmured words of gratitude, followed by a goodbye. He was preparing to abandon the shelter of the parasol and brave the rain. But as he did, curiosity got the better of me, and I called after him.

"Wait," I shouted, "you must explain. The people here are taught to hate the beast races. Their heads have been poised with lies from birth, and they have learned only hate. Why is it then, that you alone are so different from the others? What set you apart?"

One last time he smiled. Colder now, he reclaimed his spot. With a deep breath he commenced his story.

"When I was young, I lived on the Sadas plantation with my parents, and I would often make long journeys from home and see the grazelands," he paused. "But one day, I was unlucky enough to come across a wild alit, who ran at me instantly."

That was serious. I have only seen alits depicted in books, but read that they can kill a grown man with a single bite. Patiently I waited for him to continue.

"His first charge knocked me down and broke my ribs, and the second surely would have killed me. But right on that moment, a Khajiit ran by, swift as the wind, and saw me."

Another breath. I could hear the rain thump on the mushroom above us, the sounds damped, but ringing in my ears. The mer continued. "He was a feeling slave run. His bracer, damaged but still on his wrist, affirmed this. But as he saw me, he stormed at the alit, kicking at it with his strong paws, and scaring it with his large teeth. He took a few bites and injured his leg, but in the end managed to scare it away."

"However, the struggle had allowed the Khajiit's enslaver to catch up with him. And because of his leg, he was now unable to outrun them. He got captured and, as they would any slave that tried to escape, killed on the spot."

I noticed the red eyes of the Dunmer had become large, puffy almost. His voice declined to nearly a whisper. "He knew," the elf concluded. "He knew he would be caught if he stopped to save me that day. He knew saving my life would mean to forfeit his own. But still he did. He stopped to safe a child of the ones that enslaved him. He did what no Dunmer I know ever would. And up to this day, his deed stuck by me. Inspired me to, if I ever could, do the same."

He departed, and I've never had the fortune of meeting him again. Still, I will always carry his cloak as my most valued possession. As a permanent reminder of human kindness. A gift from a friendly Dunmer.


End file.
